Changing the World: All-New Tales of Valdemar

we’d be farther away if’n we didn’t have ’em.”

“Ain’t no cure for that.” Chardo, another big man, rode to Doron’s right.

Doron nodded. No cure for that, for sure. Behind them they’d left a merchant’s caravan in disarray, two of its guards dead or wounded enough they’d hardly pose a problem. The other three were the danger. The chase hadn’t lasted long, Vomehl’s skill with the bow keeping their pursuers at bay.

Maybe we bit us off a little bit more’n we could chew, Doron thought. Gerran lay dead behind them, taken in the neck by a lucky swordstroke. He offered a brief prayer to Vkandis Sunlord that Gerran might find a better life in the hereafter. So now they were only five: Ferrin, Jergen, Chardo, Vomehl, and himself. With the element of surprise on their side, it had seemed a fairly sure thing: five of the merchant’s guards and six of them. Didn’t turn out that way. Truth be told, the caravan guards were obviously better fighters.

And now that the Son of the Sun (a female Son of the Sun!) had repealed many of the laws that had governed Karse for generations and had reined in the worst of the offending priests, things were changing here on the border between Valdemar and Karse. They’d even heard rumors Solaris had hired mercenaries from the Guild to hunt down bandit bands, and had plans to arm villagers. If that was true, their future could turn out to be a very bleak one.

“So,” Chardo asked, “what d’we do next?”

Ferrin was silent. Doron watched his leader from the corners of his eyes. This raid hadn’t gone well, and Ferrin was smarting over it. The bandit chief shrugged.

“Guess we ain’t got no choice,” he responded, lifting his reins. “Make for yonder grove, and we can see what these packhorses carry.” He glanced at Doron. “Don’t think those caravan guards will keep after us now. Only three of ’em, and we outnumber ’em, and we know the land ’round here. They don’t.”

Doron relaxed somewhat. Now that Ferrin was making decisions again, things were righting themselves. The grove was a resting place for the band, somewhere they could make camp before returning to their stronghold in the hills. If fortune smiled, the contents of the packs they’d snatched from the caravan would prove enough to keep them in food, clothing and supplies for some time to come. Unless, of course, the rumors were true and the Guild came looking for them.

Tomar had been this way before, only going in the opposite direction.

Yet the land he rode through looked the same, smelled the same. Brought back memories in a rush. The setting sun seemed right to him; it had always seemed a bit out of place in Haven . . . too far to the south. It had taken some getting used to after he and his family had fled Karse years back for the safety of Valdemar. And all because of his “witch powers,” which would have doomed him to the Fires.

Yet his Gift was slight, and he knew it. A small power of Empathy, the ability to put folk at ease, to lower mental barriers and encourage them talk to him when otherwise they would have been reticent to say much of anything.

:A Gift nonetheless, Chosen,: Mindspoke Keesha. :One cannot change what one is born with. And your Gift has proven itself numerous times. Don’t sell yourself short.:

Tomar leaned forward and stroked his Companion’s neck, warmth filling him as always when sharing thoughts with her.

:I’m not dismissing it, Keesha. It’s just that—:

He let the thought die. Sometimes it was hard to watch those other Heralds who had Gifts far more powerful than his. Yet, he knew he would not have been Chosen unless he had something of value to offer the world. Companions did not make mistakes in their Choosing.

:And lest you think yourself all that unimportant,: Keesha continued, :a Herald who was born in Karse, who knows the land, the language and the customs, can be invaluable in the coming days.:

Truth. If what had recently happened in Karse with the election of a new Son of the Sun, whose very existence as a woman ruler was earthshaking, and if the potential alliance between Valdemar and Karse solidified, there would be need of Heralds who spoke fluent Karsite. Even more valuable, those who had been born in Karse.

Keesha snorted softly, not needing Mindspeech to tell him he was thinking straight.

:Well, I suppose you’re right, as usual,: Tomar admitted. He glanced to the west, at the sun sinking closer to the horizon. :We’re going to have to find a place to camp for the night. If I remember, there’s a sheltered grove with a clearing in it not all that far ahead. Has a stream for water, and the trees offer some protection. Let’s make for it, Keesha, and let tomorrow take care of itself.:

Once they’d reached the grove, Doron and Jergen had hobbled the horses and now stood watching Ferrin sift through the packs they’d stolen from the merchant’s caravan. Doron hunched his shoulders, feeling unease in the group rising. What they’d hoped would be goods they could barter in return for food and clothing turned out to be books. Books! As if any one in this area of Karse cared for books, even if they could read. He could read and cipher some; his parents had sent him to what passed for a village school in these parts. Not that he was all that interested in sitting down and plowing his way through a thicket of words or numbers. His parents had held lofty expectations for their only son: perhaps he could become a scribe who traveled from village to village, writing down various agreements between villagers, to be sanctioned later by local priests.

So much for that wish. His parents had died of a winter flux, and he, at the awkward age of twelve, became an orphan. All that schooling and he didn’t know a damned thing about farming. His aunt and uncle had taken over the little farm with the intent of keeping it in the family. Their attitude toward Doron had been much the same as if they’d been caught out in a violent storm with no cover handy. For several years, they’d tried their best to make a go of it but, having little experience farming, they’d finally sold the land to a neighbor. Now sixteen and finding himself cast adrift, he’d tried to live on what little money his aunt and uncle had granted him from the sale. He’d done odd jobs here and there, but when his money ran out and no one seemed likely to hire him, he’d joined Ferrin’s band of outlaws, choosing that life over starving to death.

They had become his family. Been so for nigh on five years.

Books.

“Damn it to all the hells!” Ferrin exploded. “Who be interested in books?”

“We could always use ’em for fuel,” Chardo ventured. “Burn right nice, I think.”

Ferrin growled something. “Won’t get us no food, Chardo, or d’you think you can eat words?”

Chardo subsided. Doron shifted uneasily as Ferrin opened the packs from the second horse.

“Well, now. What we got here?” Ferrin lifted something and held it up for inspection. His big hands tore open the bindings. “By all the demons below!” he bellowed. “Paper! Books and paper!”

Doron cringed. And for this Gerran lay dead behind them?

“Could be worse,” Jergen said, “village priests always need paper. They might even find somethin’ to use in them books there.”

Ferrin angrily jammed the paper in the pack. “You best hope that be so,” he snapped, “or we may go hungry real soon!”

“Least we got waybread to eat tonight,” Chardo said.

“Gettin’ sick of that stuff myself,” Doron offered in a conversational tone. “Glad we got some supplies waitin’ for us when we get home.”

Ferrin muttered something vile under his breath. At least he hadn’t lashed out at Doron’s comment. It was just bad luck. Real bad luck. How was anyone to guess the merchant would be carrying items that weren’t in demand out here on the border? Nothing anyone could do about bad luck.

“Wish things been different,” Chardo said. “Wish we could’ve got somethin’ worth while.”

Sudden noise made them all turn. They’d left Vomehl at the edge of the grove, bow in hand, to serve as sentry in case the caravan guards had followed. Or, Vkandis forbid, some of the Guild had turned up. Vomehl rode into the clearing by the stream, his face hard to read in the dusk.

“Someone comin’,” he said, tethering his horse to a tree. “Seen ’im a ways off.”

Doron stiffened, his hand automatically going to his sword.

“Recognize ’im?” Ferrin asked.

“No. Light not the best, but I could see enough. White horse and white rider.”